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Their time at the chateau quickly turned into a stream of consciousness marked not by the passing of time but by the fluctuation of touch, sense, and feeling. They woke when they woke, slept when they slept, worked when they felt restless, and stopped when the time felt right. There was no pressing schedule, no overarching timeline, and contrary to her usual modus operandi, Sombra was loving every second of it. Usually the hacker found relaxation difficult, preferring to immerse herself in schemes and projects to avoid the unbearable sense of idleness boredom evoked. For some reason being at the chateau, absent Talon’s ever-present agenda, freed her from this self-imposed obligation.
Oh, she still dreamed her dreams of power and unraveling the secrets of the world’s elite, but for a couple brief weeks she was satisfied by discovering the smaller secrets of the old mansion: getting lost in the catacombs among cold stones and ancient bottles of wine and throwing her translocator as high and far as she could in an effort to explore the spires and alcoves otherwise unreachable. It was quaint in comparison with her usual pursuits, but if there was anything Sombra had learned over the past few months, it was that mundane things often brought one the greatest amount of pleasure.
Simple things, like her slowly growing something with the spider.
That first night had broken down whatever physical barriers may have remained between them as effectively as a sledgehammer against glass. Sometimes the spider’s touch was still hesitant, still flavored by her distrust of her own ability to express her need, heralded by a slight furrow of the brows as she reminded herself what it took to cross that bridge they were still building between themselves. Other times some of that need broke past the sniper’s emotional firewall and Sombra would find herself with her back pressed suddenly against a cold chateau wall as Widow greeted her collarbone with teeth and insistence, hands roving along and under the pyjamas she resolutely refused to change out of unless they were leaving the house. Truth be told, she enjoyed the sniper’s unpredictability, even if she knew that it came from a place of pain and confusion.
Their days, while unwrote, soon gained some semblance of a pattern. Sombra always, always woke up first, but sometimes the hacker would feign sleep to allow Widowmaker the opportunity to rouse her, occasionally with a featherlight trail of kisses from the middle of her back to her ears, and more often with the press of fingers along the inside of her hips, urging her to wake. Sometimes she simply felt her staring, and would smile surreptitiously into her pillow, because she often did the same.
On that very first night together, Sombra found that she fit perfectly against Widowmaker’s shoulder, pressed against her like a puzzle piece she hadn’t even known was missing, but now that she’d found it the picture was so much clearer and so much more beautiful to behold.
After the second night, she wondered how she’d ever slept soundly before that discovery.
Sometimes, without warning, Widowmaker smiled. Not the shy half smile she reserved for casual humor or jabs at Sombra’s endless antics, but a real, true smile that spawned from whatever light she had lingering inside. Since coming to the chateau, they were still rare, but far more common than before.
They worked on the chateau together, sorting through old boxes and sweeping up debris blown in by the constant, cold wind that came in off the lake. On the third day it brought snow with it, and their day’s work became shutting windows and hanging tarps to keep the weather at bay as they continued painting, buffing, and reorganizing the place. Their first notable success was resurrecting one of the many sitting rooms, picking out the most comfortable, plush chairs to sit before the fire. Watching Widow struggle to coax warmth out of the old fireplace, Sombra thought for a moment that this cold and desolate palace of stone might, in fact, become a home some day.
Another metaphor to mull.
They each chose the tasks that suited them, but Widowmaker insisted they complete them together.
“There is no roof for you to run to,” she said, citing Sombra’s tantrum in the garden with a wry smile.
“Only because I can’t throw my translocator far enough,” the hacker laughed in response, picking up a broom. They worked side by side each day. Sombra held her breath whenever the spider left the room; smiled each time she returned, whether with a scowl at the sheer amount of work that still needed to be done or two glasses of wine and a kiss, suggesting they take a break along the terrace before the cold became too bitter for the hacker to stand. The sniper would hold her as they sipped from crystal glasses, silently charting the stars, and Sombra would pretend that her cold blue embrace kept the icy wind at bay. Despite the elements and despite the chill of the sniper’s touch, it was the middle of December in an empty chateau on the lake, and Sombra had never felt more warm in her life.
A first her feelings made her nervous, often teetering on the edge of second thoughts. Eventually, like all moments in her life where the risk of failure was outshone by the potential reward, she embraced the intensity of her situation and decided to live within it until it cooled to a manageable glow. Historically, this had worked out well for her, and the instances in which she’d been burned left her with scars to learn and grow from.
Running a finger lightly over the welts the sniper had raised along her back that afternoon, she smiled and thought that these scars might be of an altogether different nature, and that she might not mind sporting them at all.
Their voices echoed in the basement of the chateau, bouncing back on them a second after speaking and creating a cacophony that made choosing which wine to have for dinner a difficult task at best. It drove Widow to distraction, but Sombra found the whole thing amusing, and never minded hearing the spider’s words repeated by the house she owned. Widow had developed a way of saying Sombra’s name that elicited the gamut of reactions in her, from an electric spark of laughter to a heat that began in her chest and spread in spirals down her body.
“Sombra,” she’d say in the morning, sleepy and absent the dread of consciousness that colored most of her speech. The hacker would take advantage of this unburdened state, responding with kisses in an effort to help beat back the void that colored the sniper’s waking hours. It was always there; it would always be there, but she was finding a way to live with it regardless.
“Sombra!” she’d snap when she realized the hacker had replaced all of their food with awful, sugary cereal. It was the same way she’d subsequently shout her name for the next hour she spent tracking her down in a game of hide and seek, following Sombra’s muted laughter as she raced through the endless tunnels of the gigantic chateau to avoid the spider’s wrath. Eventually Widow started cheating, using her visor to find Sombra’s hiding places, but the game never became less fun.
“Sombra,” she’d sigh, shaking her head at finding Toulouse yet again making his bed within the ancient cupboards on a fresh blanket that he certainly had not dragged there himself.
“Sombra,” she’d nearly cry into her ear, flushed skin against flushed skin, bodies held together through clenched fists and insistent fingers. That she would repeat, over and over until exhausted, body curled against the hacker’s warmth as she clutched her close. Sometimes she would just breathe, chest rising and falling as her pulse slowed like a receding tide; sometimes she’d cry, from silent tears to racking wails as her body and mind fought whatever demon had decided to break free from Talon’s cage in that moment of vulnerability. Sombra never asked - she just held her, whispering the same soothing lullabies she remembered her mother imparting before she died, hoping the spider would eventually find the solace she so desperately sought.
Sombra knew that this trip to the chateau was a swan song of sorts; a final hurrah for the tentative dance they’d been doing for months, even before they’d come to Venice. It wasn’t sustainable, really - not at the pace they were running in between sleepy pre-dawn kisses and forgotten paint cans, overturned in a fit of midday passion when a passing touch ignited something much hungrier than the chateau’s need for an interior face-lift. Eventually the wild, boundless ardour, unrestrained by mission timelines, Talon’s machinations, and plans for world dominance would, necessarily, end. When it did, this dance would either shift from a fevered samba into a choreographed waltz, or it would fizzle out entirely under the pressure of a Talon operative’s daily life.
She’d be lying to herself if she didn’t admit that this hovering reality picked away at her sometimes, usually at night when the sniper fell inexplicably into a deep and easy sleep, leaving Sombra awake, mind racing. She hadn’t ever engaged in anything of this emotional magnitude, and the intensity of their external situation heightened it to an almost desperate, frenetic pace. She was used to, and comfortable with, manipulation and bids for greater and greater power; she was not accustomed to vulnerability or gentle passing kisses as she watched the sunrise over Lake Annecy.
It was strange. It was stranger that she enjoyed it. Dismissing the endless permutations of what might happen, she chose to focus on what was happening. She’d given Widowmaker that advice once; she may as well take it herself.
Would this brief interruption of gentleness in a life otherwise ruled by brutality change her plans for the future? She doubted it, truly - there was too much in motion and too much at stake. She entertained no delusions of ‘happily ever after’ or throwing in the towel to settle down, as tempting as fresh baguettes and morning mimosas on a sunlit terrace were. This was an interlude; a precious, unexpected, and necessary interlude in what was otherwise an adrenaline-fueled race to the top. There would be more bodies, more blackmail, more manipulation, and more chaos.
This would not change what Sombra had in store for herself, Talon, and the world at large.
What it might change, though, was why.